


Eheu Fugaces

by SQ (proteinscollide)



Category: Pop Music RPF, Take That
Genre: F/M, M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-20
Updated: 2004-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-23 05:50:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/618796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proteinscollide/pseuds/SQ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alas, the fleeing. The passage of time as Jonathon waits patiently by Robbie's side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eheu Fugaces

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Ro (littlerhymes), who heard the germ of this months ago, listened to me babble about it on several occasions since, and then looked over it for me when I wasn't sure I could do it.

The other guys in Take That don't seem to mind that Robbie just shows up one day with Jonathon in tow, the only explanation a breezy, "This is my best mate, Jon." This introduction goes round and round on set, at the bustling shoots, and in response everyone just nods at him while their eyes are already going their busy way. 

Five-a-piece horrendous matching outfits, bored photographers springing to life with staccato instruction, the guys' manager grinning insanely in the corner as the band are prodded and posed, but Jon's heartened to see that at least Robbie is still himself. He jokes and teases, and gets gently ribbed in return by the other four, his automatic older brothers. They seem nice, and Robbie seems fine. Jon's not sure why he's here for this leg of band promo, save that Robbie asked. 

"I've got auditions," he'd protested weakly, but Robbie had already turned around with uncommon yet familiar sad eyes, and Jon knew he would do anything and more for Robbie always, and not just put his career on hold. It's not such a bad life travelling with Robbie, not bad at all, and maybe the auditions wouldn't have gotten him anywhere in the end. There is a lot of waiting around, however, and it gives Jon has a lot of time to think about the maybes in his life. To date, Robbie features in well over half of them. 

Always waiting, but for once he's not on his own. There's a lull in the day, band and musicians and hangers on ( _that's me_ , Jon reminds himself ruefully), all lumped together in a lounge, holding out for Nigel to rouse of them and finally motivate them to action. Jon's played his 346th game desultory round of poker with Jason, and it's a right shame they're not playing for money, because Jason's just about rich enough now as one-fifth of Britain's premier boyband to pay up all he's lost. Max, the guys' percussionist, has been watching with some interest, but over the next round (Jason placing down money on his sure-to-be pathetic hand with almost gleeful pride), he leads them both into a conversation about acting. It's Max and Jason's shared pipe dream, and their enthusiasm eggs each other on to bigger claims; it's not that they're deliberately cutting Jon out of their talk, but when they joke about ditching this lame boyband gig for the real money in film, punctuated with hearty laughs, there's not a word Jon can say. After all, he's done the reverse - given up, temporarily, his shot at stardom - and it's not like he could ever ditch being Robbie's moral support, whatever that means when Rob obviously not needing it at all. 

Nigel swans in around noon, and Jon watches dispassionately as the atmosphere changes at the first sight of the manager's distinctive leather loafers in the door. The musicians unfold themselves from all corners of the room, sliding out the doors. They seem to ignore Nigel in the process yet act completely aware of his presence, as intrusion. Meanwhile, the guys in the band emerge from this exodus, from being part of the crowd, and move towards Nigel as if drawn, though they have not been called at all. Jon's seen this happen everywhere - in green rooms, backstage, anywhere and anytime the guys escape from being Take That for a few moments. 

But today, only three gather in front of Nigel, and things aren't looking good for Mark and Robbie from the look on their manager's face. Nigel rubs his temples with a jabbing motion, and barks, "Where's the rest of you, then? We're supposed to be leaving in five fucking minutes." 

Gary has a contemplative look on his face. "I think Mark went on ahead, actually. Dunno where Robbie's gotten to again." Jon hopes that's not a smirk he can here. But then he doesn't have much time to dwell on the state of friendship or lack thereof between Robbie and Gary, as Nigel turns suddenly and catches Jonathon still lurking in the corner. 

"Hey, you. Yeah, Robbie's shadow. You seen your little mate anywhere? Only we've got a radio interview in half an hour, so he should be here _now_." 

Jon recoils from Nigel's ruddy anger, odd behind that tight feline grin, and stutters, "N-no, but he was just here a minute ago." It's an ineffectual attempt at lying, weak to the ears. He never managed that skill - there was always Rob to jump in and save them both, with the wildest stories and the cheekiest grin to will it to truth. 

Nigel grunts. "Could you go and look for him then? We've got no time to waste, really." It's not a polite request, it's an order. What else is Jon good for around here, if Robbie's not present? Nigel disappears down the corridor with a trail of cigar incense hurriedly, without a look backward to see if Jon jumps to action. Of course he does. 

Two weeks tucked unobtrusively in cramped dressing rooms, the occasional office, whereever Robbie's meant to be, and as such Jon still has no idea how this maze of building masquerading as office resolves itself. There are narrow halls, sardonic executives meeting in conference rooms with shiny tabletops and sinister speakerphones. But in his frustration he still manages to catch the whisper of Robbie's voice through the empty corridors of the third floor he's tried. 

It's coming through a door ajar to a nondescript abandoned office. Quite the scene to catch - Robbie's hands, rough and teenaged large, gripping the edge of the wood table; his body splayed tense against the white wall; Mark on his knees, one of his hands wrapped around the base of Robbie's cock, mouth sliding along the shaft. Up and down, furious rhythm, Robbie's closed eyes and odd groans, a hand moving to tug at Mark's brown hair. Who pays no heed, setting his own timing, gliding slow in appropriate rhythm to the rising pitch and hitch of Robbie's voice. 

They used to practice together as children, voices racing faster than their fingers on the piano keys, up and down the octaves and pushing the limits of how high, how low, the notes their throats could sound. Jon has the softer tone, Robbie the slight advantage of power, but right now there's nothing but a vice around Jon's neck in speechless shock, and Robbie's voice is as gentle and breathless as a toneless falsetto as he comes. Jon's gulping shallow breaths, hard under his stilled hands in unheralded desire as he watches Robbie jerk, the swallowing motion of his bandmate's throat; never before, but now he wants Robbie - the arch in his back after, the sway on unsteady legs. Mark's pink mouth leaves Robbie so slowly it makes Jon dizzy to watch, though when he looks up his face is as sweet as always, and eyes as watchful. 

Jon beats a quick retreat then, pretends to be nonchalantly waiting by the lifts. It's not until he hears Robbie say, "Hey, it's Jon - " before he turns around, faux surprise ready. Robbie flies at him, burning hot and boisterous. He slings one arm around Jonathon's shoulder, and Jonathon replies with his own around Robbie's waist, fingers tucking in place as if playing scales in the curve. Mark, smiling and open, is coming up a few paces behind. 

"Were you lost, mate? There's nothing here for you," Robbie teases, as the dot of light above the lift drops levels slowly. 

"Nor _you_ ," Jon manages, a beat late, in retort. "Nigel needs you to be at some radio interview right now, he made me come look for you." This close to Rob, and he can smell the sweat on his friend's skin, and an unmistakable tang. 

Rob shrugs. He says, artlessly, "Nah, Mark looks out for me. Anyway, it wouldn't hurt that fuck to wait a few extra seconds. But thanks mate." 

The lift doors open with a polite chime. Mark's caught up to them now, and as they enter the lift Robbie's other arm drops casually over the other man's shoulders too. The lift begins to rise, and Jon's stomach feels as if it's been left behind on the floor again, the sickening pull of gravity doing its job. 

**

They've always liked a good party, but after five days non-stop of everything - drinking, slutting around, other things Jon's not thinking about because he's still sure back in London his mother will wake up screaming in horror - the partying on this scale is wearing him thin and worried again. Here, in the big time, all the glamour is enhanced and stripped away at the same time. The beautiful girl on the dance floor is hard pliant under his hands, the powder on her face dusting the shoulder of his shirt as she twists into his arms, perfect teeth on his lips and gnawing. This close, the effect is not luminous but rather spaced-out and unreal. She licks at his mouth, willing it to open under her too obvious charms, but now the alcohol and drugs are starting to leech away and with it returns his will to care. This scene, fame and its reflected glory, it's easier to pull, and so much harder to leave, but Jon thinks he may have had enough, finally. But Robbie's still around here somewhere, and the unspoken rule is that Jon's job is to stay and keep an eye on him. It's been three years since Robbie's habit came closest to killing him, closest to leaving his mark on the world not for his stellar career but for dying in ignominy. 

Jon can almost completely ignore the tall blonde who wriggles out from under Robbie's arm as he approaches, except some instinct, a jealous fire in his mind, turns his head at the last moment. He catches her profile with a flash of recognition as she stalks away, eyes still lingering on her model features. 

"Shit, Rob, that's _Rod's Stewart's_ wife!" 

"Ex-wife, by a few years now," Robbie grins, a predatory leer. "Fabulous tits, even better legs, eh?" 

"Yeah," Jon replies absentmindedly, his eyes seeing her appeal, before catching himself and saying sharply, "What's the fucking point, Rob? You've got blondes with big tits throwing themselves at you everywhere. There's probably some sad maid crying in your bed because you're not back like you promised last night. Why her?" 

"Why not?" Robbie says flippantly. When the frown on Jon's face remains, Robbie's voice goes up a register, an exaggerated parody of his own. " 'Cos she's Rod fucking Stewart's bird, mate," he says in his best Cockney, "rock royalty by proxy, for sure." 

Jon grimaces. "God, where's the logic in that? He's just another wrinkly old git now, and she's someone's mother." 

But Robbie's not deterred by this. "She's a sexy mum then," he smirks. 

Jon changes tack abruptly, one last effort. "Well, who's to say she even wants _you_? She could be just leading you on - " He tries to throw as much disdain, accusation, in those few words as his training allows. 

Rob throws his head back and laughs and laughs, manic, tailing to mocking. " _Blondes throwing themselves at me everywhere_ , you said," he parrots, and knocks back his beer before handing the empty glass to Jon. 

"Cheers mate," he says, eyes wide and alive with more than life, before wandering off in search of his new girl, more fun. 

**

"Bitch's dumped me," Robbie croaks miserably down the line, and Jon's heart thuds against his jersey, tight and wild. Robbie sounds forlorn, even puzzled, and Jon realises that the last time they talked was a three hour phone call where Robbie talked excitedly about hanging out with Rachel's kids, and the ways he missed her when she flew home, and how the tabloids rumours about marriage were just that. _Not really thought about it, mate, but I wouldn't mind one day, with her._ A month ago, at most. 

The two of them, Robbie and Rachel - domestic happiness in the longest on-again period in their relationship, and even as Jon was losing hope he was gearing up to be happy for his friend. But now, it's off again, and Jon's not quite sure of his motivation when he reminds Robbie their frequent break-ups never stay that way. "I mean, she'll come around, like she always - " 

"No, she's serious," Robbie moans. "How could it not be? Gave me an earful about y - a whole shitload of ridiculous things before she left, seemed like she'd been saving it all up. She's fucking heartless to dump me for real right before Christmas too." 

There's a petulant pause, and Jon closes his eyes, wondering if he really could hear sniffling on the other end. He finally says, deliberately, "Do you want me to come over then? I could probably make the first flight out tomorrow morning." 

There's a pause, the jangle of long-distance communication, then Robbie surprises Jon, drawing out his answer with a sigh. 

"N-o, Max is here - " And behind Robbie's voice Jon hears a familiar throaty laugh, a too loud "HELLO!" screamed into his ear before disappearing in the sounds of a mild scuffle. "Yeah, that was Max, the wanker. Do you remember him from back in the days? Couldn't leave my Take That days behind, so I dug up the fucker to play for me on tour." 

"Oh. Well, it's good you're not alone," Jon says, slightly taken aback from sudden change in Robbie's voice, one minute depressed, the next excited. 

"Yeah, really great 'cos we're both really fucking pissed off and well, just pissed now. Bitch dumped Max too." 

For a moment, Jon indulges in the crazy fantasy that Rachel really is the bitch in this scenario, that she's not only fucking Robbie but Max too and it's all just blown up in her face. 

"She did?" he says instead, voice unsteady, and Robbie answers bitterly, "Yeah, that Spice slut he was dating. Told him she was no fucking good." 

And then Jon remembers: dark brown curls and leery eyes, Max's hand slipping under her tiny skirt in public while Robbie laughed and made jokes about the missus, camera flashes too bright in their eyes but her crazy leopard print coat hid the worst from the world's prying eyes. 

He shudders at the memory, cold and alone on his end. 

"Misery loves company, eh?" he finally throws out. 

Robbie laughs, short and hard, and says, "Oh, like you wouldn't believe, mate." 

And then Jonathon places the sound behind the drunken slur of Robbie's voice, the strange catch in his breath. Not sniffling, not the sounds of crying, but suddenly familiar and behind his eyes Jon can see a white wall and Robbie's back pressed up and arching and coming. 

"Rob...what's going on?" His voice is no louder than a whisper, the sounds barely making it past the lump in his throat. 

Robbie groans in his ear, then laughs in a wheeze. "Shit. I don't know, I was just upset and drunk and it seemed like a good idea at the time 'cept Max was just about to go down on me and I wasn't going to tell him no, hey? God that feels good," and the solidity drops from his voice, replaced by sounds that are only amplified in volume and intimacy for being unseen and right against Jon's ear. 

Jon falls asleep hours later, the receiver still pressed against his jaw, the echo of their twin snores drifting through the night, no comfort from what he hasn't seen but can now memorise, Robbie's voice in gasps detailing every moment on his end. 

The day after, the day before Christmas Eve, Jon wakes to the phone ringing off the hook, answering sleepily before he realises it's Rob, and the entire drunken episode comes rushing back. Except it doesn't for Robbie, who just sounds worse for wear, tired, and unapologetic for what he cannot remember. 

"I rang you while drunk off my arse again, didn't I?" he sighs dramatically, and then says breezily, "It's not like I could've told you anything really stupid that you didn't already know." 

Jonathon's all reassurances and lies, ashes and bile in his mouth. Rob hangs up with an easy heart, nothing remiss to regret, and Jon becomes very busy in the following months, too busy sometimes to answer the international phone calls that become annoyed but amused ansaphone messages, often replete with silly voices and wheedling songs about their soured love, sometimes with accompaniment from an unidentified, not entirely unknown, male voice. Jon doesn't delete any of them, but he doesn't listen to them again either. 

**

"Come on tour with me," Robbie begs over the phone, a few days into his break in New York, but Jonathon really has an excuse this time. A contract too, a leading role and his parents really are proud of their son in fishnets and garish makeup every night, front and centre of stage. Visiting Rob is his best mate's duty - no, make that privilege - but now and then Jon can't help but think it's Robbie's turn really, to do his part. But even as he hangs up he has to put his hand to his chest, against his heart, against the phantom pain of missing Robbie. 

So he's utterly surprised when he finds Rob outside his dressing room before the show, an armful of roses, and a tired but true smile. 

"What, I don't even rate a hello? I've only skipped the millionth rehearsal for my own show," Robbie jokes, a light punch on the arm for punctuation; but Jon's so overwhelmed he doesn't return the manly salute as he should, grabs Rob and roses in a big hug instead, nose buried in the crook of Robbie's neck. Fresh scent of the flowers, a line of sweat under the collar, and Jon holds onto him with delight. Finally, Robbie pulls away reluctantly. 

"It's time for the show, mate. Go out there and kill'em, you gorgeous thing," said with a flash of his cheekiest smile, a low whistle that makes Jonathon blush more than the loud ones he gets from the other guys in the cast. 

Jon's reluctant to leave him there, dressed in his sharpest best and completely tame next to his own leather get-up, in the narrow corridor. 

"You'll be alone - " he protests, but Robbie shakes his head, gives him a gentle push. 

"I've brought me dad," he says; then after an odd pause, "and - Max. He wanted to see you shine too." 

Jon turns his back on Robbie in that moment, but Lisa puts her head around the corner and yells for him to hurry in that moment, so Jon thinks maybe, hopefully maybe, Robbie didn't notice. Scurrying away on the musty blue carpet fast as he can in his killer heels, and when he reaches Lisa he gives her a large electric shock on the back of her neck by accident. And so the show opens with her caught in the midst of giving him the dirtiest look, while in the guise of Janet's utter sweetness. 

Post-show high, and Jon thinks he might even be able to stomach going out with Robbie and his new shadow in Max. But it's Robbie alone who waits for him, and he has nothing more to say than simply, "Because I asked them to go." Jon gives him another hug then, sheer gratefulness and joy, and Robbie wraps his arms around Jon's back with a contented sigh. 

" _Touch-a-touch-a-touch me_ ," he croons in his celebrated voice. Then whispers into Jon's ear, "C'mon mate, let's go get a drink to celebrate, you were magnificent, you bastard." 

Jon frowns, says anxiously, "Should you be drinking with the stuff you're on? I thought they didn't go together - makes you woozier or something. I read up on that stuff you sent me about depression." 

Robbie shrugs, a giant flowing movement to convey carelessness. "Nah, man, I'll be okay," Robbie says, "I want to go out with you, have some fun." 

"No," Jon replies, firmly. It's too late in the game to be fooled by Robbie and his act of casual. "I mean, yes, let's do something fun, but if this night's for me, then I say no drinking. We'll do something else - we'll - " 

"Let's get tattoos," Robbie announces out of nowhere. "Your name, on me; my name, on you." 

" - go clubbing or - What?" 

"Tattoos," Robbie says resolutely. "I want another one. I want something of you when you're not with me, and I can't fly out and see you every bloody time. I'm not made or money, y'know." So obviously, so outrageously a lie, but delivered with an outrageous smile. Jon just throws his head back helplessly and laughs, gives in. 

By the time they spill into the tiny parlour Robbie is all noise and bravado, excitement. The artist doesn't seem to believe they're not drunk, doesn't seem to trust they're not seventeen-year-old boys up to no good, and mostly unusually, doesn't seem to recognise Robbie in a heartbeat. This only puts Robbie in even better spirits. He cracks jokes all the way through the buzz, small figures appearing at a small distance from the bend of his elbow, on his inner arm. Numbers, and not names, they eventually decide, something only the two of them can understand. It's still one written forever on the other. 

When it's his turn, Jon hesitates for a moment. Not a question of going through with it, but where to keep Robbie with him. The whole idea is so oddly intimate, a lover's mark, and Jon swallows his doubts and sits down with his trousers around his ankles. "Here," he gulps, and points to an unblemished surface, the skin high upon his left thigh. Robbie's eyes are drawn there, linger there. The tattoo man gives them a sharp glance, then rolls his eyes. It's this stranger's obvious contempt that brings Robbie to his knees, a _fuck you_ gesture as aggressive as it is loving. Jon distracts himself from the annoying low grade pain by watching his best friend lying with his head pillowed against his right knee, intently following every moment as the needle point draws permanent lines, fascinated with the branding of his own. 

As the gauze is lightly held in place, Robbie's head turns to look up at Jon, a tired glazed expression. His hand reaches out, passes over the white pad, fingers still. "I want to touch it," Robbie whispers, and Jonathon closes his own hand over Robbie's, fingers slipping into the grasp. 

This love all along, this many years. The time to heal will fly, he's sure of it, and then Robbie will have his wish, and his own desire too, finally. He closes his eyes, and knows the wait is almost over. 

END


End file.
